The World's a Beast of a Burden
by Lissomedi
Summary: She is so beautiful. He tries not to notice—there are a thousand things more important than the beauty of an exiled queen. And yet. Set during S7. Jon/Daenerys.
1. I

**Title:** The World's a Beast of a Burden  
 **Summary:** With a quest for the throne and a fool's war against the Army of the Dead, Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow have no time for each other. And yet.  
 **Timeframe:** Begins after their meeting in 7x03.  
 **Rating:** Mature  
 **Disclaimer:** Much like Jon Snow, I own nothing.

* * *

 _"Oh, poor Atlas,_  
 _the world's a beast of a burden,_  
 _you've been holding on a long time."  
_

— Florence + the Machine, _What the Water Gave Me_

* * *

 **I.**

She summons him late the first night, long after he and Ser Davos have ended their strategy discussions and turned in for bed. The Dorthraki who comes to fetch him is silent and intimidating, with his strange clothes and scowling, strong features. The warrior says nothing—perhaps doesn't know how. He simply leads Jon down a maze of tunnels, past more foreign guards, and to the door of a chamber.

The Dorthraki roughly searches Jon for weapons, and Jon doesn't resist—he has none on him. Once that is confirmed, the imposing man retreats into the darkness of the hallway. Out of sight, but not out of hearing distance. If the queen were to give word, all of the men lining the hallways could be at her side in an instant.

Well, then.

Jon pushes open the door and reveals a spacious chamber, lit by the flickering flames of a large hearth. There's a lavish canopied bed, its heavy curtains pulled back and tied neatly with silk. The heat of the room is impressive. Dragonstone is far south, of course—but not far enough to avoid the biting cold of a Winter that has come.

But in here, the heat causes sweat to bead on his skin.

She stands by the fire, bathed in its light, her silver-blonde hair reflecting the flames. She wears a simple white dress, the silky fabric cascading down her figure and pillowing on the floor. It's too thin, inappropriate to his Northman's sensibilities—but she's a foreign queen, having spent her life in a hotter land.

"Lord Snow," she says, without turning away from the flames.

"Your Grace," he answers, bowing his head though she can't see him.

She seems transfixed by the flames. Her hand stretches out, fingers yearning toward the yellow-orange twisting shapes. He expects her to stop—to draw back when the heat becomes unbearable. But she doesn't. She pushes her hand fully into the flames, enveloping it up to her elbow.

"Your Grace—" he exclaims, leaping forward to pull her back. Is she mad after all?

She looks at him, and her expression halts him. As she removes her hand from the flames, he sees that it's unmarred, not even pink from the white-hot heat. She flexes and turns it—displaying it for him.

"Now you understand why they call me The Unburnt," she says, straightening and shifting to face him.

He tries to calm his hammering heart. "Why am I here?"

"I thought we should talk." She takes two measured steps toward him, and a knot of tension forms in his throat.

"But why—here?" The impropriety of being in her bed chamber sends unease jolting down his spine.

She stares at him, a faint smile forming on her lips. The way she stands, straight-backed and proud, her hands clasped together in front of her—it speaks to the royalty in her blood. The royalty she believes she possesses, no matter the Mad King's crimes or the conquering of the throne by Robert Baratheon.

And she is so beautiful. He tries not to notice—there are a thousand things more important than the beauty of an exiled queen. And yet.

"You won't bow to me," she says. "But I wonder—will you obey my orders?"

"You have two thousand men who can make certain I do," he says carefully. "I have—Ser Davos."

"A worthy companion, to be sure." She seems to mean it. "But none of them are in here."

"No," he agrees.

"Strip."

His mouth goes dry. The shock of it blanks his mind, and it takes him a few moments to reply. "Your Grace—I don't think—"

She steps closer, and he takes a step back, toward the door. Are there Dorthraki behind it? Is he trapped here with her?

Would he mind if he were?

He can't resist it—his eyes trail her, over her body beneath the thin white dress, her long silver-blonde curls, her lovely face.

Then he looks away, jaw clenching. "This is not why I came here."

"You want my help," she answers, moving closer still—crowding him. "What if this is the price?"

"I think you underestimate your bargaining power."

She raises a pale eyebrow. "You think you're worth so little?"

"I think you're worth a great deal more."

She pauses, so close he can feel her breath on his throat. His moves away until he hits the rough stone of the door, the wrought-iron handle digging into the small of his back.

"Do you know how many men want to own women?" she asks finally.

He thinks of Sansa—of that monster she was forced to marry, and of the man who even now circles her like a predator, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

When he answers, his voice is hard. "Too many."

"They want to own a queen most of all. They come from near and far—did you know? Promising anything. Everything. They mean none of it." She looks him over. "Sometimes they tell extraordinary tales."

"I don't want to own you, Your Grace. I don't own anything."

"Perhaps I will own you instead, my King in the North."

The air seems to still around them, the only noise the crackle and roar of the flames. He may be imagining it, but he thinks he can feel heat coming from her, too, as though the fire burned inside her. After a long moment, he steps toward her, pulling at his cloak as he goes.

"If it means you will help me," he says, eyes searching hers. His heart thunders against his chest.

She stands still, her expression unreadable as his fingers fumble at the ties of his cloak. He pushes the heavy furs off his shoulders and they hit the floor with a gentle thump. The heavy metal gorget carved with his family's sigil comes next, landing with a metallic ring. Then he starts on his leather jerkin, not entirely graceful in removing it, but he thinks he hears her intake of breath when he finally pulls it free. His wool undershirt comes easily, and he feels the heated air hit his skin as he pulls the shirt over his head.

"Stop," she orders suddenly.

His hands freeze around the buckle of his trousers. He can barely hear her over the roaring in his ears—a roaring that gets louder when she reaches out for him.

"Hold still."

He obeys, but can't help his jump of surprise when she touches the bare skin of his chest. Her fingers are light and warm, and a shudder works through him.

It takes him a moment to realize she's touching the center of his chest—over his heart. Tracing the ugly red scars there.

Her intentions snap into clarity, and he curses his clouded brain. Stupid to let her distract him so completely.

"Sir Davos said you took a knife to the heart for your people," she says quietly, and he finally looks at her. He feels flushed and riled, his body burning, but she still looks frustratingly calm. Controlled. "Tyrion insisted it was a flight of fancy from men living in the dreary North. I thought differently. I shall tell him I've won our wager."

"The north isn't as miserable as that." His voice is hoarse.

"Turn around."

He does, and again he feels her fingers on his skin. There's something dreadfully addicting about her touch, like he could experience it once and go to bed craving it for a hundred years.

"These are mortal wounds," she says. "So I ask you: How are you able to stand here in front of me, Lord Snow?"

He turns back to her. The question cools the fire inside of him.

"The Red Priestess Milisandre."

Her eyes scan his face, looking for honesty and finding it. For the first time since he met her, she seems shaken. "You're—you've been resurrected? She chose you?"

He shrugs his undershirt back on, unwilling to show his scars any longer. Despite its cover, he still feel exposed. "I don't know about chosen. All I know is she brought me back."

"Lord Snow, this is—" she breaks off, her voice trembling. Then she swallows and collects herself. "This is significant information. You might have mentioned it earlier."

"And miss my chance to be called to your bed chamber?"

She has the grace to look sheepish. "Men are untrustworthy. They require tests."

"Did I pass?"

She eyes him appraisingly. He's aware of his state of undress, of the flush staining his face. "I have not yet decided."

"So you don't—you don't want—" he stutters and regrets the question, feeling like a young boy asking for his first romp.

"I do not make slaves of anyone, Jon Snow." Her voice is hard. "Not even men who rebel against me."

The disappointment is hot, slippery, and unexpected. Damn the gods. What has she done to him?

A voice inside him whispers that her commands and shows of strength are unnecessary. She can have him. Anywhere and any way she wants.

He viciously silences that voice.

Your people. The Night King. The safety of Westeros. By the gods, Jon Snow, collect yourself.

But as he looks at her, everything in him yearns to touch her soft skin, run his fingers through her pale hair, kiss her curved lips. She smiles at him, flashing white teeth, and he wonders if she can see it on his face, in the coiled tension of his body.

She's caught him.

She intended to.

"You may go, Lord Snow."

He notices the way she shifts between his titles, only calling him "king" when she means it mockingly. Unlike Ser Davos, it doesn't bother him.

He puts the rest of his clothing on again and pushes open the door. Dorthraki stand on the other side, weapons drawn. His jaw ticks as he pushes past them, but they let him go without a word.

When he reaches his room, he undresses quickly, hunger pooling in his belly. He strokes himself, and it does nothing to soothe the fire she started in him, but eventually he groans his release and collapses, exhausted, into sleep.

* * *

Daenerys Targaryen listens as Jon Snow's footsteps fade down the long stone hallway. When he's gone, Missandei opens the door.

"Your Grace?" she says, her voice tentative. "Did you accomplish what you hoped with Lord Snow?"

No. Dany thinks. I wanted to watch him come undone beneath me. Even now, heat lights her skin as she imagines it—as she remembers how he looked at her while he pulled his clothes away.

"Yes," she answers instead, her voice steely. A queen has no time for such fancies. Least of all with a man who could destroy her quest for the Iron Throne. "It was—enlightening."

"Do you need anything?"

"No." Dany shakes from her thoughts enough to smile at her right-hand woman. "Please get some sleep, Missandei. I will see you tomorrow."

The other woman nods and exits the room, closing the door behind her. The guards will stay there throughout the night, alert and ready to defend despite the late hour.

She slips into bed and pulls the thick furs around her. In the darkness, her fingers find the tenderness between her legs, circling until she cries out into the night, Jon Snow's gentle face in her thoughts.


	2. II

**II.**

The next time Daenerys summons Jon, she is in her strategy quarters with Lord Tyrion. There is a large map etched onto the table between them, carved with the peaks and valleys and forests and wildlands of the Seven Kingdoms. Scattered over the table are small stone figures representing the great houses and their armies. Her eyes are intent on the table, but he thinks her spine stiffens when he enters. Tyrion gives him a warm smile and handshake of welcome.

The queen does not move or acknowledge his presence. She wears a high-collared, long-sleeved dress made of thick wool, her hair pulled back in a series of intricate braids. But he remembers her bare skin and loose curls from the last time he saw her.

She continues talking with her Hand while Jon stands awkwardly, waiting for her to address him. He had been overseeing the mining of the dragonglass; he should be there now.

"My King in the North," she says finally, her eyes finding him at last. "Thank you for joining us. Can you please tell me of Winterfell?"

"About—Winterfell?" he repeats, stuck on the way she makes his title sound like a secret name whispered between lovers.

"I have never been, of course," she says, moving around the table toward him. Jon swallows at her nearness. "And Tyrion only spent enough time there to remember it was cold."

" _Very_ cold," Tyrion corrects.

"Is there something specific, Your Grace?" Jon asks. "I have lived my entire life in the North."

"Tell me about it now," she specifies, her eyes moving to the top of the table, where two carved wolf heads rest. "Your sister has taken command in your stead, is that correct?"

"Sansa, yes," Jon replies. His eyes find Tyrion, who looks uncomfortable under his gaze. "With another man who I suspect wants to marry her."

"I didn't _want_ to—" Tyrion begins.

"Is that Lord Baelish?" Daenerys interrupts. "You don't like him."

"I'd throw him over the Wall if I could."

"And you cannot? You are the _king_."

Jon stares at her, debating the wisdom of a response.

"Little Finger is dangerous," Tyrion says into the silence. "Tricky, and incredibly clever. You'll find he is not as easy to get rid of as one might think, Your Grace."

"I have met many clever men," Daenerys answers dismissively. "They do not worry me. But tell me more of your sister, Lord Snow. She is not 20, is she?"

"Yes."

"And you felt confident leaving Winterfell in her hands?"

"She has been through—" he stops, his jaw clenching and sadness turning his voice thick. "She has experienced much, Your Grace. It makes her older than her years."

"I'm sorry for her suffering," the queen says, and he can see she means it. "Once you return to Winterfell as my Warden, you can banish Lord Baelish and your sister can live peacefully as Lady of the North."

Anger flashes through him. "Once you release me from Dragonstone and allow me to return, Sansa and I will fight the war against the Night King together. My sister understands the urgency of this task."

Daenerys' eyes turn as hard as the stone at her back. "Tyrion, please leave us."

Tyrion glances between them. "I'm not sure that's—"

" _Now_."

Tyrion shrugs and walks out of the room, eyeing Jon sympathetically as he goes.

"Nothing has changed," Jon says before she can speak.

"I disagree," she answers. "I'm giving you your dragonglass, helping you forge weapons from it—and I receive nothing in return?"

"You're a poor diplomat, Your Grace," he responds. "You've revealed yourself. Did you expect me to bend the knee in exchange for the glass?"

"I thought that—" she stops and breathes a frustrated sigh, and for a moment he can see the woman in her, the one that exists beneath the queen. He feels an aching need to touch that woman. Then her expression hardens over. "So you feel the same as before? You will not help me depose Cersei Lannister and reclaim the throne?"

"To the best of my ability, I will protect the North and all of Westeros from the Army of the Dead."

"And let that _monster_ remain on the throne."

"She won't be there long, even if you do nothing."

"She _burned_ the Great Sept to the ground." Her voice trembles with anger. "You must know that. Burned thousands of people alive with wildfire. Her _own_ people. Is this not why your father overthrew mine? What is Cersei, if not a Mad Queen?"

Tension creeps up his spine. "I have thought of this, Your Grace."

"And yet you will not help me end her tyranny."

"Because it doesn't _matter_. Not in the face of what's to come." A frustrated sound escapes him. "I keep saying the same things over and over and no one _listens_."

"Because it's madness."

"Says the woman who birthed dragons."

"I am _not_ a woman," she says fiercely, striding toward him. Her eyes burn into his. "I am your queen. You will bow to me one way or another, Jon Snow."

Her anger is intoxicating, flashing and flickering like flame. His throat tightens as he looks at her, and his fingers curl into fists to keep from reaching for her.

"So do it, then," he demands, voice hoarse. "Order me to my knees."

Her face flushes, her chest rising and falling with her rapid breathing. His own pulse roars in his ears and he is _so close_ to reaching out and taking her—

"I want your allegiance, Jon Snow. Not your—" she breaks off and swallows, her eyes trailing down him. He feels himself stirring under her gaze. "I have no time for this."

"I don't either," he says, meaning it utterly.

The backs of her thighs brush against the table, and he realizes how close they are—how he has moved toward her, stalking like a wolf does prey. He steps away, ashamed.

"Forgive me," he says, releasing an unsteady breath. "I shouldn't have—"

"No," she says, her voice cool and calm once more. But her eyes burn. "You shouldn't have. Please leave, Lord Snow."

"Your Grace, I…"

"Your men will be awaiting your direction."

He stares at her a moment longer, then nods curtly. He doesn't look back when he leaves the room—but he wants to.

By the gods, he wants to.

* * *

Daenerys paces the strategy room, her hands twisting around each other. The desire pierces straight through the heart of her, burning like fire.

 _Damn him_. Why is she reacting this way?

For the first time, she wishes she had not sent Daario away. The ache between her legs is unbearable, and at least he could fill it. She considers the Dorthraki—her only alternative—but memories of their harshness cool the fire in her belly.

They could do nothing to satisfy her anyway. She has never felt _want_ like this, piercing deeper than physical need. It makes her afraid.

"Your Grace?"

Missandei steps into the strategy room, looking calm and poised as always. Dany halts her furious pacing.

"Are you alright?"

"I-" Dany must say yes. Yes, of course she is fine—no bastard-born imposter king could rattle her. But she knows her advisor can see through her.

"You can have him, you know," Missandei says cautiously. "If that's what Your Grace desires. He seems—willing."

"Curse him," Dany spits. "I do not want him."

Missandei knows better than to argue. She bows her head. "Tyrion is requesting your presence. Lord Varys has some news."

Worry gnaws at Dany's gut—their war is not going well. She nods her head curtly and forces down the chaos inside of her. Whatever she feels for this man, she told him the truth—she has no time for it. Men make queens weak. She cannot afford to be weak.

"Take me to him," Daenerys commands.


	3. III

The queen invites them to dine with her. She sits in the dining hall at a long table, surrounded by her advisors. Jon and Davos take seats on either side of Tyrion. Missandei sits at one end, Varys at the other—with Daenerys right across from Jon, her back to the great glass windows that frame the remains of a spectacular ocean sunset.

The room itself is a marvel of carved rock, greater even than her throne room and designed with the same intent to impress—to overpower. There are guards at every entrance, two per archway.

Jon tries to avoid gaping around him. The men of the North are humble people. Between spending his life at Winterfell and the Wall, he's rarely seen grandeur like this.

"Thank you for joining us, Lord Snow," she says, inclining her head. "Ser Davos."

"Thank you for your invitation," Jon replies. He notices that her cup is full of water instead of wine. Tyrion, by contrast, has a full bottle of wine next to his goblet.

They are mostly silent as food is served, blackened roasted pig and some kind of foreign root vegetable that Jon doesn't recognize. The queen eats very little.

"I invited you here so you can tell us more about this—Army of the Dead," Her eyes shift briefly to Tyrion, who nods.

Hope surges through Jon's veins, but he takes a sip of his wine to calm himself.

"They've been building forces for some time, Your Grace," Jon says finally. "I am not the only who has seen them—many men at the Wall have fought them. It's why we burn the bodies of our dead."

"And these—what do you call them?"

"Wights, your grace."

"These Wights—what are their weaknesses? Aside from my dragonglass."

"Fire."

The table is silent, that knowledge settling heavily on the room. Jon stares at the queen, and she holds his gaze steadily.

"I understand why you came to me."

"You don't want to hurt the people of King's Landing," he says, leaning toward her. There's a shuffle from the guards in the corners of the room, but they don't move forward. "I understand that—I _respect_ it. But please believe me—if we do nothing, thousands _will_ die. And the more who die, the more who join the Night King's army. My people are the first in line—the first in defense and the first to die should the army break through. This could be the end of all of us, and no one will see it coming."

"Except you," she responds quietly. He can't read her eyes—never can. "That must be its own kind of torment."

He says nothing for a moment. "I've never been a believer, Your Grace. Not in the old gods or the new ones. Only trusted what my eyes could see. But these creatures—they _are_ real. I still see them every night in my dreams. I've witnessed them rip through men; through armies. Fell giants. I've seen their strength and their numbers."

"We cannot simply _abandon_ our war with Cersei," Varys says, eyes narrowed at Jon. "Your Grace will never be respected as a ruler if we withdraw."

"We also can't ignore a credible threat to the North," Tyrion counters, voice reasonable. "Fighting alongside them against a common enemy can fortify our relationship there—and the North is a historically important ally."

They go back and forth like this, two clever men finding ways to look cleverer than the other. Jon has never had the patience for politics, and he lets the conversation blur and fade until it's just a dull murmur in the background. His eyes land on the queen.

She is staring back. The candlelight is gentle on her face, making her look younger. For a moment, he can almost forget the monumental weight of who she is and why she's here. For a moment, she is simply a beautiful girl sitting across the table from him at dinner.

It would be a mistake to underestimate her, to see weakness in her pale beauty and young age. She's a dragon wrapped in sweet skin—and she can devour him. He shouldn't forget that.

"I have something to show you," he says, and though he's at a table full of advisors with her army at his back, he speaks only to her.

"Do you?" There's a knowing smile on her face.

The table quiets around them, the rise and fall of the argument drifting away. He feels their eyes on him—on _them_.

"Will you come?" he asks.

She stares at him, long enough for him to think she will refuse. The hush of the room has its own weight as it settles over him. Then she nods.

"Your Grace—" Tyrion begins, a warning in his voice, but the queen holds up a hand and he falls silent again.

"Please excuse us," she says, sparing a glance at her advisors. "We will resume this discussion tomorrow."

—-

Jon leads her to the cave underneath the castle, her guard trailing so far behind that he can almost believe they are alone. She is light and quick on her feet, graceful over the wet sand. The night's darkness washes over them, the moon half-full and hanging heavy over the ocean, its light reflected on the crashing waves. The smell of salt water sits thick in the air.

They reach the jagged opening in the rock. The tunnel is dark, the miners having all gone for food and rest. A flame flickers faintly at the opening of the cave, a torch soaked with pitch hanging underneath it. He removes the torch from its stone holder and lights it. The fire chases away the darkness and illuminates her face, and she leans into the heat.

He steps into the cave with her following close on his heels.

"We should have shown you before," he says apologetically. "It's hacked to pieces now, I'm afraid."

The flame casts long shadows over the coarse glittering rock. His words are true; empty ridges run through the stone where the dragonglass used to be, like some giant creature took its claws to the rock.

He looks back at her, and she is staring up into the depths of the cave, eyes trailing the dragonglass as it continues long past the flame's reach.

"I had no idea," she says, her voice hushed.

"There's more," he says. "Our men opened up an old cavern today—we think it was lost to a cave-in. Come."

He hands her the torch and she proceeds side-by-side with him, their shoulders almost touching. The path narrows to where they have to walk in a single line, and he encourages her forward with a brief hand on her waist. He pulls back once she steps through the slender opening.

The golden cave paintings flash in the light of her torch, and she gasps.

"What are these?" she asks, her voice close and muted in the small space.

"The Children of the Forest made them."

"When?"

"A long time ago."

She turns in a slow circle, the flame catching on the walls as she moves. There are hundreds of circular symbols, darting and swirling like some forgotten constellation. Jon doesn't know their meanings—doubts even the maesters with all their knowledge could decode these paintings. They pre-date the wisdom of man.

"So beautiful," she breathes, her voice trembling and her eyes glassy with wonder in the dim light.

Jon's throat goes tight watching her, and for a moment he can't speak.

Then he grabs her wrist to guide the flame.

"Not all of them," he says.

The final painting rests on a huge, flat wall that stretches twenty men high. She raises the torch and its light catches on the figures scratched into the stone. Wights. Thousands upon thousands of them, their eyes crystal blue, their bodies pale white and glistening like snow. There's bright red beneath them—the blood of the First Men, who lay scattered and broken beneath the onslaught.

"It's a warning," he says, voice low. "This is what's to come if we don't fight them off. If we don't join together."

He turns toward her, but her unreadable eyes are still on the cave painting.

"I can't do this on my own," Jon says. "It kills me to say it, but I can't. The North will fight, and we'll fight well—but we'll die. The Night King's army will flood through Winterfell and down past the Eyrie; they'll take King's Landing and the Southern Islands and beyond, across the Narrow Sea. Not even the great grass plains of the Dorthraki will escape them. They will lay waste to everything, until all that's left is winter. Forever."

"Forever," she repeats, her voice faint.

He hesitates, then takes her hand in his. "But we can stop this. You and I. Together."

She doesn't resist him. It's unwise to be touching her so—he's deeply aware of that, knows the impropriety of being tucked away in a cave alone with a young Southern queen. Nothing about his life makes sense anymore, least of all her.

Finally, she seems to come back to herself. She pulls free of him and he lets go, stepping back.

She studies the cave painting for a moment more and then looks at him. There's strength in her gaze, in the elegant line of her neck and the straight set of her shoulders.

"I _will_ fight for you, Jon Snow," she declares, her voice clear and ringing with promise. "I will fight for the North."

The relief that floods him is hot and thick, dripping like the sweetest honey down his spine. For a moment he feels like he can finally _rest_ , like the tension inside of him can unknot itself. She believes him. She will help. They can win this war together.

"When you bend the knee."

His tumbling thoughts crash to a halt. "What?"

"Swear your allegiance, and I will take my dragons to The Wall. I will win your war against the Night King."

"No." The word comes out as a reflex.

"Why not?"

"My people—" he stops. "They won't accept a Southern ruler. Not after all they've suffered."

"They _will_ ," she insists, taking a step toward him. He takes a matching step back. "If their _king_ does."

"They trusted me to lead them."

"So lead them," she says. "This is their greatest chance for survival—an alliance between our houses. Is that not worth more than your pride?"

" _My_ pride?"

Her teeth clench, the line of her jaw harsh in the firelight. "I'm not prideful, Lord Snow. I'm simply asking for my due."

That isn't entirely true—his can tell she takes a great deal of pride in her lineage, but it's a wasted effort to argue with her.

"Tell me something," he says instead. Their faces drift closer, the flame bathing him in heat. Or is it coming from her? "Why do you want to rule the Seven Kingdoms?"

"It's my _birthright_."

He shakes his head. "If we're going on birthrights, then mine is to resist you. But if you want me to bow to you, Daenerys Targaryen, to trust you to lead me and my people—then I think I deserve an honest answer."

She says nothing for a long time, her face turned toward the tall, painted wall.

Finally, she speaks, her eyes still tracing the drawings above their heads. "When we met, I told you I was sold into slavery. My brother gifted me to Khal Drogo in exchange for an army." She reaches out a hand to touch the deep red of the painted rock. Jon half expects her hand to come away stained with blood. "An army that follows me now, though I didn't know what was to come. I only knew my fate was outside of my control, and I was afraid."

His heart aches for her—for the young girl he can still see behind her eyes. But he knows better than to offer pity.

"Everyone believes the Dorthraki to be uncivilized," he says. "But I've seen many women in Westeros sold into marriages in much the same way. They're given no say in their own future." He swallows. "My sister among them."

" _That_ is why, Jon Snow." When she looks back at him, her eyes are alight from the inside. "This world—it is nothing but cruelty. Cruel to women, cruel to children. And to men. But I _can_ change it. And I will."

The strength of her conviction is overwhelming. He can see it now, why these foreign armies follow her—why everyone, even jaded men like Tyrion and Varys, have fallen in line. Despite himself, he feels the stirrings of hope in his chest, hope that one day the world can be better than it is now. A place where good men can live in peace with their families, safe from wars and the machinations of greedy men.

"There's something else," she says, her voice less certain. "I—well, I would very much like to go home."

Home. The word conjures up an aching need for Winterfell, for his father and his siblings and all the things that can never be again. Play-fighting Arya with wooden swords. Perfecting his accent with Sansa as they drank tea she brewed in a silver kettle. Rickon and Bran running underfoot, Bran climbing the tallest trees with no fear in his eyes. And Robb—talk, brave, unbowed Robb. Jon still sees them all at night when he closes his eyes.

Perhaps that is how she sees Westeros. A home she's only glimpsed in her dreams.

He opens his mouth, not sure what he intends to say, but a shout echoes through the cave and draws their attention. The queen looks at him for a moment and then they both turn, hurrying toward the opening.

Tyrion and Varys stand on the sand, their faces grave in the moonlight.

"Your Grace," Tyrion says, his voice more hesitant than Jon has ever heard it. "A raven has just arrived."

"What is it?" She demands.

"We took Casterly Rock."

"Well, that's very good to hear. Isn't it?"

His expression is pained. "There's—there's something else."


	4. IV

**IV.**

Jon thought he had seen Daenerys Targaryen angry. That first day he met her, when he tripped over his tongue and called her a child—he remembers the hard look in her eyes, the steel-tipped words she threw at him. And during their many encounters since, when he has denied her what she views as her birthright. He recalls every frustrated hiss, every wildfire burning inside her violet eyes as she looked at him like she wanted to wither him on the spot.

But now he realizes he's never seen her angry—not truly. Her small frame towers, seeming to grow and double on itself until he could swear the shadow she casts is in the shape of her monstrous children. There's fire burning through her, and he's almost surprised that it doesn't ripple from her fingertips. She is a sight to behold—frightening and wondrous just like her dragons.

Davos tries to excuse he and Jon from this conversation—it's not appropriate for them to be there, although propriety hasn't held much sway at Dragonstone. The queen's eyes whip toward he and Jon both, and Jon resists the urge to shrink away.

" _You will stay_."

And so they do. They stay at the edge of her circle of advisors, while Tyrion tries to reason with her, his small body rigid and his hands held out beseechingly. "Your Grace—"

"All of our allies— _gone_." Her words are weapons, aimed at Tyrion's heart. "While I sit here on this island, your _sister_ has taken back Dorne, the Iron Islands and Highgarden!"

"We still have a plan," Tyrion answers, his voice a forced calm. "it's the right plan. We'll—"

"No more clever plans!" Her shout rings out over the beach. "I have the largest army—I have three very large dragons. I will take them all to King's Landing and show Cersei Lannister what the Mother of Dragons is truly made of. Unless you don't wish to see her fall?"

Tyrion's face goes dark with anger. "Are you questioning my loyalty?"

"Perhaps you are having second thoughts. They are your _family_."

"No," Tyrion says, his voice firm and steady as stone. "I want you to win this war, Your Grace—very much. But not at the cost of thousands of innocent people in King's Landing. The destruction caused by your forces—"

"What war is won without destruction?" she demands.

"You can't be different from past rulers while resorting to the same tactics," Tyrion says stubbornly. "Do you want to break the wheel or not?"

"And if your sister is willing to be ruthless while I am not—who will win?"

"We _can_ still win."

She turns away from Tyrion in frustration—and her eyes land on Jon. He's taken aback by the way her rage animates her face; he has never seen emotions ripple through her features like this. Something primal and unnamable echoes within him as he stares into the fury overtaking her. Distantly, he hears a dragon roar.

" _You_." She marches toward him. Jon keeps his ground, squaring his shoulders and preparing for the onslaught. "What do you think I should do?"

It takes him a moment to comprehend her words. He had expected many things from this storm of a queen—accusations, insults, even threats. But he had not expected this.

"I wouldn't presume to—"

"I'm at war. I'm losing. _What should I do?_ " Her eyes blaze into his. "Answer me, Jon Snow."

He glances at Davos, who gives a slight shake of his head. He can hear the man's curt, unspoken words: _Don't do it, boy. She'll have your head no matter what you say_. But when Jon looks back at her, her gaze is expectant—and impatient. He must answer now.

Again he hears her dragons call as they swoop and lap around each other over the ocean. His eyes track their flight for a moment.

"You brought dragons back to life," he says finally, eyes finding hers. Where she is fire, he tries to be ice—calm and cool. "You conquered cities and convinced armies to pledge their allegiance to you. But more than that, you've made people's lives _better_." She listens to him silently, her body still, her eyes steady on his face. "What you've managed to do is extraordinary. But if you take those dragons and those armies who love you, and you unleash them on King's Landing—you won't be better than Cersei or Robert Baratheon or your father. You'll be the same."

She stares at him for a long moment, and he does not flinch. Finally, she looks away, her eyes finding her Hand.

"I will not go to King's Landing, and I will not take all of my dragons," she says finally. Jon feels something inside of him snap and release at her words, at the fact that she _listened_ to him. "But I _will_ fight back."

"How do you propose to do that?" Tyrion asks.

Her body turns toward the sea. She opens her arms wide and says, in a language Jon doesn't recognize, _"Drōgon, māzigon naejot nyke_."

A dragon separates from its siblings—the largest one, its scales black with streaks of red. It circles around the beach and lands with surprising grace in front of the queen. And Jon realizes what she's doing, a moment before the great beast lowers its wing and allows her to climb up to its neck. He stares in awe as she settles into the space between its neck and shoulder blades, her body tiny against the canvas of red-black scales.  
How can something so small control something so large and fierce?

"I will return," she says from atop her giant mount.

The beast roars and takes flight, and with a few beats of its wings, she and the dragon disappear into the sky. 

* * *

She comes back covered in blood and smelling of smoke. Her dragon lands its great body in the shallows of the ocean, the water sizzling into steam on its scales. It staggers up the beach, releasing a sound Jon has never heard from the beasts before, one that's long and plaintive and deeply furious. And Jon realizes.

It's in pain.

If something had the power to hurt a dragon, what could it have done to her?

The rest of her advisors are on the beach, their expressions a mixture of relief and horror as they watch the return of the wounded dragon and their bloodied queen. The great beast makes it to dry land, and the queen slides free from his back, landing hard on the sand. She goes down to her knees and Jon rushes forward on instinct.

The dragon growls and twists toward him, roaring his disapproval, and panic shudders down Jon's spine. He stares at the great beast, and the beast stares back. Jon can see every scale on its face, can trace the fine ridges and rough skin between them. Small noises echo from the base of monster's throat, and Jon wonders what a dragon sounds like just before it breathes fire. He can smell smoke and singed flesh in the air, and his legs threaten to give way beneath him.

Then—something shifts. Jon feels it inside of him, something lumbering and deep like the change of an ocean tide. The dragon's powerful body goes still, the noises quieting as it leans back on its haunches, eyes still tracking Jon's every move.

For a moment Jon can't move, entranced by the strange link he feels to the dragon—one that the dragon seems to feel in return. Slowly, on instinct, he reaches out and touches the great beast.

It's like palming an ember—only it doesn't hurt. The heat is sharp and searing, all the way down to his bones, but his skin is unmarred.

A small sound from the queen shakes him from his trance, and hurries to her. She is still on her knees in the sand, her hair loose from its intricate braids and tumbling down around her. She stares up at him, her eyes wide. He catches her under her forearms and lifts her to her feet.

There's blood and ash in her hair, on her dress. Her face is smudged with soot, her violet eyes standing out brightly against her soiled skin. Being near her is like embracing a wildfire.

"Drogon—" she gasps out. "They had a weapon—something that had enough force to—to—I removed the spear but I don't know—"

Drogon spreads his great wings, forcing Jon and the queen to crouch or be decapitated. The dragon lumbers to his feet and takes flight, shrieking a cry as a he circles toward the other side of the island. Daenerys shouts, her hands reaching toward the empty sky.

"It's all right," Jon says, with more confidence than he feels. "He—he'll find a place to rest. It's all right, Your Grace—he will recover."

She looks at him, worry etching hard lines into her face, and he realizes how accurate it is to call her the Mother of Dragons—not the Master or the Rider. She loves them as her own. They _are_ her own.

Missandei moves forward, her hands held out to the queen. Daenerys takes them and lets the woman lead her away, their voices a hushed whisper. There's affection in the way they touch, the way they embrace—and Jon remembers Missandei's words.

 _She'd give me a ship and wish me good fortune_.

And perhaps she would.

Jon wants to go with them. He wants badly to make sure she is alright, to check her over for injuries and soothe her fears. But Davos is standing on the beach, and there are hundreds of men still chipping away at dragonglass in the cave. There are rocksmiths shaping and smoothing the glass into weapons, and they require guidance and materials.

"Come," he says to Davos, striding forward. "Let's get back to work."

"You don't want to know what happened?"

He _does_. Deeply.

"The queen's war is not our concern, Ser Davos. We cannot be distracted."


	5. V

**V.**

The war takes a turn. Her devastating attack on the loot train leaves the Lannisters without food or men to fight for them, and the siege on King's Landing begins. Jon wants to tell her that starving her people is not better than burning them—but she doesn't ask for his advice again, and he knows better than to give it freely.

His work in the caves inches closer to completion. The pile of weapons should excite him, or at the very least bring relief—but it doesn't. He came for the dragonglass, yes, but more than anything he came for her help. Her ultimatum hangs heavy between them every time he sees her. He hasn't bowed, and he knows she hasn't forgotten.

He is walking through Dragonstone, exhausted and muddy from a long day and craving only his bedchamber, when he hears a strangled cry. Without thought, he breaks into a run and bursts into the throne room.

She stands at the top of the stone steps, surrounded by guards and completely unharmed. Jon feels foolish—the queen has plenty of means to protect herself. She has never needed him for that.

A man kneels at the bottom of the stairs, hands flat on the floor and head bowed, the perfect image of submission. Daenerys stares down at him, her mouth open and her hand covering it, as though she is seeing a ghost.

Jon shifts uncomfortably—many people have stared at _him_ that way.

"Jorah," she breathes, all of her attention on the man bowing at her feet. She doesn't notice Jon's entrance. "How?"

"A foolish young man at the Citadel, _Khaleesi_ ," this Jorah says. He stands finally, slow to regaining his feet, and Jon sees that he is twice the queen's age at least, with deep scars covering his face, arms, and neck. The wounds continue down into his leather jerkin and past the sleeves of his shirt. "Risked his life to peel the Greyscale from my flesh."

Greyscale. Jon's blood runs cold.

The queen descends the stairs slowly, her eyes wide and shining with tears.

"Your letter." Her voice is barely more than a whisper. "I assumed—I thought you were dead."

"By all rights, I should be."

She reaches for him—and Jon leaps into action.

"Don't," Jon commands harshly, forgetting himself, his hand held out to stall her. "Don't touch him."

"But he has been cured," she says. He expects a verbal lashing for his command, but it doesn't come. Why has this man's arrival shaken her so?

"You can't know that for sure," Jon says.

Jorah turns toward him. His eyes are sharp and wise, and they take Jon in from top to bottom. Underneath the scars, Jon can tell that the other man's features are even and dignified, and decidedly Westerosi.

"The Warden of the North," Jorah surmises.

" _King_."

"Jon Snow, this is Ser Jorah Mormont," Daenerys introduces, at last remembering formalities.

Jon freezes, his mind jumbling as he tries to take in that information. _This_ is the son of Jeor Mormont? The man who shamed his family and fled to avoid his death sentence? Jon remembers the pain on Commander Mormont's face when he spoke of his lost son—the disappointment and regret.

"I served with your father," Jon says finally. "He was an honorable man. A good commander. Your cousin Lyanna follows in his footsteps—she is one of my chief allies."

Jorah raises his eyebrows. "You ally with children?"

Jon's voice is hard. "She is neither a child nor incapable. Lyanna leads your house with grace and courage, Ser." _Unlike you_ , he wants to say. Instead he continues evenly, "She certainly takes after her namesake, my aunt Lyanna."

"Ah, yes," Jorah responds. "You're Ned Stark's bastard son."

The recognition of Jon's birth doesn't bother him-he's heard it often enough. But the dislike wrapped around his father's name makes Jon bristle. "Another good man."

"Depends on who you ask, I suppose."

"Stop." The queen's order is swift and hard, and they fall silent. She reaches for Jorah and, despite Jon's protestations, she grasps the other man's hands.

"I've missed you," she says to him. Her voice is sweet and open.

Something dark roars in Jon's chest, twisting and writhing. He feels as though he doesn't exist to her, despite standing only an arm's length away.

"I've thought of you every day, my queen." Jorah's scarred hands clench around hers, his face tight with emotion.

Is this what she wants in her followers? Devoted subservience? Because it's almost like—

Jon's breath freezes in his lungs.

It's almost like Jorah Mormont is in love with her.

"I need your counsel, Jorah," she says. "Now more than ever."

Jon clenches his teeth against the dark feeling knotting in his stomach. Jealousy. A stupid thing to feel—he has no claim on her. Nothing ties them together except their dance for power.

She finally releases Jorah, and her eyes find Jon. "And yours also, Lord Snow."

"You have it," Jon says, without considering the wisdom of such a promise. Jorah's blue eyes pierce him.

"Come," she says to both of them. Already her calm, even demeanor is reemerging, the emotion fading from her eyes.

Jorah follows quickly in her footsteps, pulling even with her as they walk to the strategy room. Jon trails behind, trying to quiet the monster inside of him—the one telling him that Jorah is attempting to take something that belongs to him.

Jon owns nothing here. He would do well to remember that. 

* * *

He's never alone with the queen now. It was unexpected before, something that probably should not have happened in the first place, but Ser Jorah ensures it never does. Mormont has more sway with the queen than Tyrion or Varys or any of her other advisors. When they are together, their unknown history is thick between them—Jon can sense it in the words they say, and in the ones they don't.

From their conversations, he gathers that Jorah has been with her since her forced marriage to the Dorthraki horselord. They speak of old times occasionally, reminding each other of this event or that journey. There was a betrayal, too—Jon doesn't know exactly what occurred, but they are careful around one another, as if the wrongdoing still haunts both of them.

Jorah's feelings are easy to see, present in his every word and action. He is devoted to her, as a man and as a servant of the crown. The queen's feelings are more complicated to discern. There is affection and familiarity to be sure—but love?

Jon aches to know.

She summons Jon and he goes to her, expecting a retinue as usual with Jorah solidly at her right hand. When he arrives, he can hear raised voices. Shrouded in shadow at the archway, he waits for a break in the conversation so he can enter. Then he realizes they are arguing about him.

"He still hasn't pledged his loyalty to you." Jorah's voice is sharp-edged as Valyrian steel, echoing off the stone walls.

"You think I'm unaware of this?"

"Yet you invite him to meetings and allow him to counsel you."

"What do you think he's doing, Jorah?" she demands. "Sending ravens to the Lannisters? Aiding the woman who murdered his father and destroyed his family?"

"He's a _bastard_ ," Jorah spits. "He carved out power for himself in the North, but those without power always crave more of it, and ruling a frozen land is nothing to ruling the Seven Kingdoms. How can you trust him, when he refuses to pledge his sword to you?"

"I—believe he is a good man, with good intentions."

"A good man? Forgive me, but I think your emotions are clouding your judgment."

"My emotions?" Her voice is quiet fire.

"You are in love with him." The words come as an accusation. "I see it in the way you look at him. You have no reason to trust this man, no reason to provide him with resources or invite him to your counsel—but you do so anyway. It's unwise."

Jon's heart pounds in his chest, a hot flush sweeping through him. He should turn and leave, pretend he never heard—but she summoned him.

When she speaks, her voice is capable of crashing down mountains and melting castles. "You know nothing of my heart, Jorah. Whatever I feel for Jon Snow, it is none of your concern." Her voice goes lower, so soft Jon can barely hear it. "You will never be my king. If serving me is not enough for you, then you may leave—I will not stop you."

"No," Jorah says at once, his voice full. "I don't want—I want to serve you. That's all I want. But I'm worried about you, Daenerys. I'm worried about what he's doing to you."

"Thank you for bringing these concerns to my attention," she answers coolly. "Now please excuse yourself so I may speak to Lord Snow. I believe he is standing outside the door."

Jon's face is hot as he steps into the room. Foolish of him to think her guard wouldn't alert her to his presence. Jorah pushes past him, his eyes furious and accusing.

"I'm sorry," Jon says once Jorah has gone. "I didn't mean—I was waiting for an appropriate time to enter."

"I imagine that was difficult to find." Unbelievably, there's humor in her voice.

He says nothing, shifting from one foot to the other.

"I have no intention of confessing my love for you," she says into the silence.

"No, I didn't expect—"

"Jorah is a devoted man. But sometimes his—attachment—clouds his judgment."

"No need to explain. Men in love tend to be unreasonable."

She raises her eyebrows. "Speaking from experience?"

He thinks of red hair and sharp laughter; broken vows and naked bodies twisting together in the dark. "Very much so."

"Do you have a mistress, Lord Snow?"

He stops breathing for a moment. "I—no, Your Grace."

"Are you betrothed, then? To a lady from a northern house?"

And he had thought it impossible for this conversation to get _more_ embarrassing. "That's really not my concern, Your Grace. Not with the Night King and the Army of the Dead. And before this I was a man of the Night's Watch and we, my brothers and I, were—"

"Celibate," she finishes for him.

"Aye."

"And do you hold any such vow now?"

Jon opens his mouth—and stops. He has thought of this many times, and never come to a satisfactory conclusion about it. "I am no longer the Lord Commander or a brother of the Night's Watch."

"And in your heart?"

Such a simple question, but it's one that pierces right to the center of him. He accepted his life at The Wall; he thought he would be there forever. _It shall not end until my death._

What does a man do when his life extends beyond dying?

He shakes his head. "None of that matters in the face of what's to come. All that's important is preparing ourselves as best we can to fight the war. That's what my vow truly meant—not abstaining from marriage and carnal pleasures. It meant protecting the North and all of Westeros from the evil beyond The Wall."

She smiles at him. "You are always so serious, Lord Snow."

He inclines his head. "Things in life are serious, Your Grace."

"Indeed."

She steps toward him, the graceful train of her dress rustling behind her. Her clothes have grown thicker recently, her dark-blue dress lined with fine white fur. Despite her more traditionally Westerosi garb, she still looks striking and unfamiliar with her silver-blonde hair and violet eyes.

"I haven't forgotten our conversation," she says.

"I didn't expect you to."

"You won't bow to me because you're afraid your men will refuse to follow a Southern queen."

She walks in a slow circle around him, and unease slides up his spine. He holds himself still, staring straight ahead, feeling as though every part of him is being measured for value.

"There is a second option, Lord Snow. Perhaps you will find it more agreeable."

"What's that, Your Grace?"

"A marriage."

He can't speak.

She continues in his silence. "You can remain King, and our union will ensure loyalty from the North. The Starks and Targaryans were allies for centuries—we can unite those houses again, for the good of our people."

"Stop." He holds up his hands to make her cease circling him. She does, coming to rest in front of him an arm's length away. "Stop talking about this like it's good strategy. It's absurd."

"Eddard Stark married Catelyn Tully to unite their houses, did he not?"

"My father loved Catelyn."

"Then your father was lucky. Leaders don't have the freedom to marry for love. You might have considered that before you became a king."

His breath is heavy in his lungs. "Is this really what you want?"

She stares at him, her eyes unfathomable. "I want to find a solution to our stalemate. This works in both our favors, and allows you to keep the power you've collected."

He _hates_ it—the way she talks of marrying him as if it's a clever move in a game. A move to be tracked at her strategy table, to be discussed and analyzed with her council.

When he speaks, his voice is harder than he intends it to be. "I have no desire to be king of Westeros."

She looks away. "Then bow."

"No."

"Then we are back where we began." She sighs in frustration and steps away, turning her back on him. "Your time is running short, Jon Snow. You've forged your weapons—you will need to return to your people soon. I've allowed you to exist here comfortably thus far. But I will not allow you to leave, with _my_ dragonglass, without a promise of your loyalty."

"So you wish to wed me instead?"

"What I want is irrelevant."

"Not to me."

She turns back to him, her eyes flashing. "Do you understand what I'm offering you? An opportunity to be King beside me. To help me rule Westeros, to guide our kingdom into the future we both see for it."

 _Nothing_. He's half in love with her and yet she gives him nothing of her heart. Just more talk of kingdoms and rightful rulers.

"I am honored by your offer, Your Grace," he says, his voice distant and formal to his own ears. "But I must decline it."

Surprise washes over her face. "This is your answer? You won't even consider it?"

"I don't think it would be right for either of us."

She swallows, a flush turning her pale cheeks pink. Somewhere, in the distant thunder of her eyes, he thinks he sees hurt.

Then she shakes her head and looks down. "Thank you for your time, Lord Snow. I am sure you must be tired from your activities today. We shall have supper sent to your room."

He has been dining with her every night since their first meal together. Her dismissal weighs heavily on him, but he bows his head and offers his thanks.

When he walks away, he doesn't dare look back—afraid that if he does, he will change his answer. 

* * *

"He said no."

"Ah." Tyrion stares at her for a long moment, his brown eyes considering. "I thought he might."

"What?" She demands. "Then why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"I did, in point of fact. But you seemed quite—determined."

She turns toward the window, staring out into the crashing ocean. "Is the thought of marrying me so horrible?"

" _That_ is the reaction of a woman, not a queen. Can you think of a reason he might not wish to be king?"

"He seems determined enough to lead the North."

"Because they chose him. Davos told me Jon campaigned for his sister Sansa to become queen of the Northmen. She has more claim, given her legitimate status, and I'm told she has blossomed into a capable leader. He was similarly resistant to becoming the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

"So?"

"So perhaps it was poor strategy to dangle power in front of a man who is indifferent to it."

"What, then? Should I have offered him land? A castle? I've already promised him Winterfell."

Tyrion doesn't answer directly. "I've been married, you know. Twice. Once for love, and the other at the whim of my father's schemes." He says nothing for a moment, his throat working. "It's a terrible thing, to stand in front of the High Septon and everyone in your life, and to _know_ the person next to you wants nothing to do with you."

"That's not—"

"You're no fool, my queen. Nor are you unobservant. So I can't help wondering why you didn't offer Jon Snow the one thing that would convince him to accept you."

She clenches her jaw and turns away. "I don't wish to talk about this."

He inclines his head and says nothing more.

She stares at the waves, comforted by their constant crashing. As someone so drawn to fire, she expected to have an aversion to water when she finally set out onto the sea. But she doesn't. It has its own lulling sense of familiarity.

"I walked into a funeral pyre." Her voice is little more than a whisper. "I didn't know I could withstand the fire."

"You were a child then."

"It doesn't feel like so long ago." She turns toward him again, her back stiff. "A queen must be strong for her people."

Tyrion opens his mouth to reply, but Varys enters the room with a scroll in his hand. A wolf's head is stamped on the seal.

"Your Grace," he says, inclining his head. "A raven has come for Lord Snow."


	6. VI

Hi, all! So, I know it's been a while. I have a very good excuse for it, I think: A little ol' thing called Hurricane Irma. For about a week, my city was projected to be in the direct path of that monster. We spent a lot of time preparing, evacuating inland, and hunkering down. I'm happy to say that everything is okay and we made it through, but it was a rough week or so. Not too conducive to creativity, particularly when you're writing a steamy romance.

This part was originally supposed to include two scenes, but I'm not quite ready to post the second half. I will hopefully have it up tomorrow, so you'll get a double whammy. Full disclosure, I've hit the end of my pre-written parts, so after this weekend, you can likely expect a new part every week.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, followed, favorited or otherwise appreciated this fic! Your response has been overwhelming. Thank you so much.

* * *

 **IV.**

Jon can barely comprehend the letter. Bran, Arya—alive? He was sure he'd lost them. He'd _mourned_ them. And now he tries to recall their faces, to age them into the people they would be now. Is Arya still brave, still quick on her feet? Does Bran laugh the way he used to, head thrown back and every tooth showing? They were only children when he saw them last.

The next part of the letter is, if possible, more difficult to understand. With the eyes of a crow, Bran saw the Night King riding with his army toward Eastwatch by the Sea. Jon has seen it before, this power to peer through the eyes of animals-but he has trouble connecting the skill to his brother. Sansa states it bluntly, as though she has no doubt, and Jon trusts her judgment. If she says Bran can do it, then he can. But the implications of that are devastating.

If what Bran saw is true, then his family has reunited in time to die at the hands of the Night King.

He crumbles the letter in his hands. Like _hell_.

"I thought they were dead," he says to no one in particular. He feels the queen's eyes on him, but he doesn't look at her.

"I'm happy for you," she answers sincerely. When he stays silent, she says, "But you don't look happy."

"My brother—" his voice fails and he has to try again. "Bran saw the Army of the Dead on the move. He can see through the eyes of animals. I know it sounds mad—"

"No more mad than an army of dead men, I suppose," Varys says, derision in his voice. Jon has no patience for it.

"They're heading to Eastwatch," Jon continues stubbornly. "If they make it past the wall—" In his mind's eye, Jon sees Winterfell, fallen and frozen over, snow drifting gently over the bodies of the Northmen. "It's over. We're finished."

"If what you say is true, The Wall has provided defense against these creatures for thousands of years," Varys argues, his voice measured. Jon clenches his jaw. "What makes you think they will break through now?"

"The Wall has been undermanned for _centuries_ ," Jon snaps, his frustration bleeding through. "Aside from the Freefolk I sent there and some trading posts, Eastwatch has long been left to rot. No upkeep, few defenses. It's the weakest point, and the Night King must know it."

He paces the room, his hands clenching into fists. This suddenly feels pointless. Sitting here, talking to the people in this room, debating and running through options as though there are any options left. At the end of it, Jon has always been a man of action—and he knows what he needs to do.

"I have to go home," he says, and his eyes land, unwillingly, on her. She is the only one with the power to release him—and not only by returning his ship to him. "I have to gather the northern army and build up our defenses. We're out of time."

"You don't have enough men." Her voice is quiet and controlled, as always. But there's a tight thrumming under the surface.

"We'll fight with the men we have."

"We don't know how large the Army of the Dead is." Davos' voice is gruff. "Without reinforcements, the Northmen could walking into a slaughter. How can we convince them to do it?"

"The men in the North are brave. They'll go where I lead them."

The queen stares at Jon, her eyes burning into him and through him, her breath quickening under his gaze.

"You can't lead an army beyond the wall," Davis says incredulously. "You're not a soldier anymore—You're King in the North."

He doesn't look away from her. "I'm no leader if I refuse to fight side-by-side with my men."

 _And die beside them_. From the way her expression tightens, he thinks she hears his unspoken words.

She jumps to her feet. "No."

"What?"

"No. You will not go. I haven't given you permission to leave."

"All due respect, Your Grace, but I don't need your permission. I am a king."

" _You_ are a rebellious subject."

"Daenerys." Jorah's voice is a low warning.

"Quiet," she snaps, her furious eyes whipping toward Mormont. Then she turns her gaze back at Jon, looking ready to burn him where he stands. "I will not allow you to leave."

He opens his mouth, his heart hammering and a scathing remark on his tongue. He is so _tired_ of her need to control, to demand obedience. Will she ever stop wanting him to submit to her?

Then he realizes—she's shaking. It starts at her fingers, clenched around the table, and works all the way down her rigid spine. Her cheeks are flushed, and there are tears glistening unfallen in her eyes.

Understanding falls over him.

It's been so long since someone cared whether he lived or died, including himself. He's almost forgotten what it looks like.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet. "I have to. I can't leave them to die. You must understand."

She turns away, facing the window.

"Can you give us a moment?" He asks the council.

The eyes in the room look toward Daenerys, and she nods once, curtly. Her council files out, but Jorah hangs back, his eyes flicking between them.

"I don't think—" Mormont begins.

"Leave us." Her command is clipped and cold. Jorah obeys, reluctance in his every move.

Then it's just the two of them, and the rumble of a distant thunderstorm gathering power over the sea.

"It's foolish," she says quietly, still refusing to look at him.

"I have no other options." He steps toward her. "Daenerys, I—"

"Don't."

The word is quiet, but it rings with authority. He's followed her willingly enough during his time at Dragonstone, giving in when he could have challenged her—but he's done with that now.

"No," he says, gently but firmly, still moving toward her. She doesn't turn around, but her shoulders go rigid. "No more avoiding it. Please look at me."

She whirls around, defiance in her eyes. It melts like snow upon fire when she sees how close they are.

"You heroes," she says, her voice quiet. Stripped down. "You always have to do the stupidest, bravest thing. It will get you killed."

"It already has."

"I want no part of it."

"I understand," he says.

Then he takes her face into his hands and kisses her, like he's wanted to do from the moment he laid eyes on her.

Her mouth is soft and open, making it easy, _so easy_ , to slip into her, to taste the sweetness he knew existed under the hard shell of the queen. She does nothing for a long moment—and then she kisses him back. A shiver works through him as her lips move under his, and he tugs her closer, arms twining around her waist.

She feels like he always thought she—a wildfire spun out of control, the burn so fierce and sweet he doesn't mind perishing inside of it.

Then she pulls away, taking his hands in hers and removing them from her waist. After a moment, she lets him go completely.

The hardness is back in her expression, but it's brittle, like she could shatter at any moment. "This is—what you want? You believe this is the best for your people?"

"I know it is. The Northmen need their king. I have to _be_ there, Daenerys."

She stares at him, her eyes sharp and missing nothing. After a long, tense moment, the fight drains out of her and she nods. "I will allow you to leave with the dragonglass. I will allow you to return to the North."

He aches for her, even as she releases him. "Thank you."

She hesitates, then says, "I can't join you. This battle for the throne—I've prepared for it all my life. It's everything to me."

She doesn't truly believe in the Army of the Dead—how could she? She hasn't seen them, hasn't seen their overwhelming power. He can't blame her for that, but he doesn't have the time or the means to convince her. Not anymore. "I understand."

She stares at him, and for the thousandth time, he wishes he could read anything in her eyes. But they're as opaque as ever.

"I hope we can stop them," he says. "I hope we're able to protect Westeros so that you may reign."

Her lips quirk in the barest of smiles. "That's as close as you've ever come to calling me Queen."

"If circumstances were different—"

"They aren't," she interrupts. "I learned long ago to avoid hoping for things that cannot be."

Even so, he imagines it: A world where he can bow to her, where he can help her build the kind of society she wants to create. He thinks he could believe in that world.

But she's right. This is the reality they live in, and they must accept it. Their paths intersected briefly—but now it's time to part.

"I—" she teeters for a moment, and he thinks her defenses might finally crumble; that she might let him in at last. But when she speaks, he's disappointed.

"I think your people chose well," she says. "Don't let them down, Jon Snow."

He hesitates for a moment, gazing at her. Then he nods.


	7. VII

**Warning (or teaser)** : EXPLICIT CONTENT. Please be aware that this part contains explicit sexual content. If that's not for you, proceed to the next chapter marked as non-explicit. Every part with will be clearly marked. Thanks!

* * *

 **VII.**

Jon can't sleep. His nerves dance and shake under his skin, causing him to toss and turn beneath his thick fur bedding. The room is small and closed off, warmed by a fire burning at the hearth.

Tomorrow, he and Davos will begin the long trek home. Within one moon, he could be on a frozen battlefield, his sword pointed toward an army of dead men, their eyes crystal-blue and their faces slack and rotting. If there is any comfort in this war, it's that he won't be facing living men, whose fear and rage and _life_ shine brightly in their eyes before he takes his sword to them.

He has never found comfort or pleasure in killing, but these abominations desecrating the bodies of men—he might enjoy destroying them.

Finally he rises from the bed, the cool air hitting the naked skin of his chest. It feels good—soothing. Calming to his frayed nerves. He takes a deep breath, the rattle of his lungs echoing out into the still room. Sometimes he thinks his body still resists life—that it fights to return to the peace of death. Jon once longed for it, too, on nights when he lay awake and wondered why he had been spared, while greater men like his father and trueborn brothers had not.

A knock sounds on the door, so quick and light he could believe he imagined it. He walks to the heavy stone door and slides open the metal bolt, sure it will be Ser Davos, who is as restless to begin their journey as Jon is. They have much to discuss, and Jon doesn't expect to sleep tonight anyway.

But instead of a gruff old man with white hair and a white beard, Jon finds a vision on the other side. A queen with silver hair loose and tumbling down her back, her features lit warmly by a lone candle resting in a silver candlestick in her hand. The dress she wears is midnight blue and sweeps to the floor, with intriguing cutouts at her waist and shoulders, and a deep V lending a view of the tops of her soft, pale breasts. He has never seen such a dress before.

All of it sends his heart leaping into his throat and a tongue of fire burning through his blood.

"Your Grace—I did not expect—" he stops and swallows, aware of his near-nakedness, of the sweat beading on his skin and the way his heavy hair falls into his face, free from its respectable bun. "Let me dress."

He backs away from the door, but she steps into the room.

"No," she says.

His hand stills as it reaches for his fur-lined coat. The queen shuts the door, sliding the lock into place. The heavy scratch of metal sends a tremor through him.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"You mean to leave tomorrow," she says instead of answering, setting the candle down with a gentle thump and turning to face him.

"Aye."

"I mean to have you tonight."

The words send blood rushing southward. In his thin smallclothes, his reaction is easy to see. Her eyes slide down his body like a caress, then move up to meet his gaze again.

He clenches his jaw, trying to regain some control. "I don't know if that's wise, Your Grace."

She steps closer, bringing with her the scent of ash and sweet foreign oils. The aroma rolls over him as she reaches an elegant hand behind her neck. Her fingers tug on a string there, and the silk dress slips free, falling in a sleek puddle to the floor.

She wears nothing underneath. His eyes go everywhere at once, taking in the curve of her breasts, the line of her stomach, the sweetness of pale thighs—and the inviting temptation between them. A strangled sound slips from his lips.

She floats toward him, and he catches more of that damnable scent. He feels like he's drowning in it, losing all sense of his way to the surface. His manhood strains against his clothes now, apparent to both of them. He imagines her deft fingers wrapping around it; then her mouth. It's almost more than he can take.

"You can refuse," she says quietly. Her face is flushed, her eyes on fire. But she doesn't move toward him.

"Another test?" His voice is hoarse.

"No."

There is a trembling moment, where she stares at him and he at her, and they are both open and exposed to one another.

"Fuck," he says finally, on a groan—the sound of his resistance breaking.

He takes her in his arms, the shock of her naked chest against his sending a shudder through him. She makes a small, maddening sound as he brings their lips together. He should be tender, gentle. He loves her—he's sure of it now. And yet they seem beyond that, as she presses her tongue into his open mouth, her arms strong and insistent when they pull him closer. She looks so small, so delicate—but she is not. Her hunger is just as bold as his.

Her boldness gives him the confidence to walk her backwards until her naked back hits the hard stone wall. He moves his hands under her bottom and pulls her up, fingers on her thighs and pushing them open. She's compliant in his arms, wrapping her legs around his hips and locking her ankles together—and they both groan as the movement pushes them intimately together, separated only by the thinnest layer of material.

Her pulls back for a moment, watching her, entranced by the shake of her breasts as she pants, her eyes so dilated they look black in the candlelight. All of that stillness, that careful control she keeps with everyone else—he relishes in watching it fall away, in seeing the truth of her.

He keeps his eyes on her as he reaches between them, finding the bundle of nerves at her center. She writhes and cries out, her voice sharp in the still air.

" _Jon_ ," she breathes, and his cock tightens at his name on her red, swollen lips. "Oh, gods, _yes_."

He kisses those lips again, fingers still circling her, his mouth swallowing her cries. He keeps his thumb moving as he slides one finger into her sweet wetness—then another. Her hips buck, meeting his strokes and urging them on. His erection is full and painful, pulsing every time she rubs against him.

He can't take much more of this.

Jon pulls his hand away from her and braces both arms across her back, holding her close as he moves them to the bed. Gently, he leans her back, settling her over the soft furs. He stares down at her, eyes tracing the lines of her lovely, flushed face. She opens her eyes and stares back, and he thinks he can finally see it—the love she denies him, burning there in her eyes as she lies beneath him.

His fingers are gentle over her jaw; on the delicate line of her throat and the hollow of her collarbone. They trail over her breasts, pulling and squeezing until she gasps. His hand travels lower, tracing the line of stomach, dipping into her belly button, then sliding over hips and, finally, between her legs.

"You're beautiful," he says, watching every shudder of pleasure that breaks over her face. "Gods, Daenerys, you're so beautiful."

"Stop gaping and get on with it," she breathes, a shadow of the fierce, commanding queen in her voice, and he laughs in surprise. The sound is foreign to his own ears.

"As you command," he says. He pulls his fingers away and she makes a soft keening sound of protest—until he lowers his head and places kisses where he'd caressed, until his head settles between her legs. His fingers push open her thighs, splaying her wide. She is perfect here, too, soft and red and pulsing. His mouth closes over her.

" _Sīkudi nopāzmi_ ," she gasps, shuddering, the foreign words washing over him. He doesn't know their meaning, but he can guess. Her fingers slide through his hair, grasping at the roots and pulling. Her sweet scent is intoxicating as it coats his face.

His tongue circles her, tugging and pulling until she is writhing and bucking against his chin. He places his hand on her stomach and presses her hips down, holding her still. Then he doubles his efforts, sliding his fingers into her as he sucks at her most sensitive part. He feels the tension building in her—and he feels the moment that it peaks, Valyrian words streaming from her lips as her hands tighten painfully in his hair, her hips lifting off the bed.

His attentions gentle but continue steadily, riding her out. Then her hands are tugging on his hair, pulling his face up to hers.

" _Gods_ , Jon Snow." Her voice is low and throaty and sends a jolt of need through him. "You are good at that."

He kisses her instead of answering, groaning into her soft mouth, the taste of her still on his tongue. Then her hands are on his shoulders and pushing, and he backs away immediately, sure she's changed her mind—that she'll put an end to this madness. He stares down at her, a question in his eyes. 

* * *

The pleasure shudders through Dany as she places her palms on Jon's shoulders, pushing him back. His weight vanishes immediately as he braces himself on his palms, his eyes serious and worried as he leans over her.

Then she smiles at him, and the tension inside of him breaks into visible relief. She keeps her hands on his shoulders, directing him down onto the furs. He complies, lying on his back as she shifts to straddle his hips. She pushes down smallclothes and he groans at the release, his eyes pressing closed. She watches his face in fascination, observing every tremble and shudder as she wraps her fingers around him.

From the day she met him, he's hidden nothing from her. Frustration, anger, sadness, desire—it's as clear on his face as the sun in a cloudless sky. The unfiltered nature of his emotions is intriguing and foreign. She has never met a man of power who didn't have a secondary motive, a hidden agenda. She watches him now, suddenly fierce in her desire to see him helpless and wanting—to know it's because of her.

She pumps her fingers around him and his whole body seizes, his muscles tightening and his jaw clenching hard. The pleasure almost looks painful on him.

"Jon?" Her voice is a question in the still room.

He opens his eyes, and they're cloudy with desire. He nods, his fingers reaching down and wrapping around hers, showing her the rhythm he likes. She catches onto it and he groans again, the sound pulled from deep in his throat.

"Look at me," she commands. His dazed eyes find hers and hold, stoking the desire in her belly.

Somewhere, in a distant part of her, an alarm bell sounds-she knows there's more than lust in his eyes, more than devotion. There's a type of love that could tumble her kingdom down around her. But the warning is soft and far away, and he is hot and ready and willing underneath her.

Suddenly desperate in a way she can't understand or admit to, Dany uses her fingers to direct him into her opening. She slides down on him in one swift motion, and he moans, long and low, every muscle trembling.

"Oh, gods, Dany," he says, his voice as full as he's making her.

It feels wonderful-better than any of her other lovers, and _different_. She braces her hands on his chest and moves above him. His hips respond, lifting to meet hers, and she moans at the friction deep within her. His hands come to grip her hips, but he doesn't try to direct the rhythm. She appreciates that more than she thought she would.

Her control slips as she rides him, and soon her movements are quick and desperate as low mewling sounds slip between her lips.

Then, before she can realize what happened, he's flipped them, bracing himself above her and thrusting deep. Her hands go to his back, pulling him closer, urging him on. Her fingernails rake his skin and her groans and captures her lips with his.

His kiss is fierce and wanting, and she returns it. Then he pulls away to press his lips along her jaw and down the hollow of her throat, pulling a high keening sound from her.

She feels the pressure building, building, building-a sweet, delicious torture as he moves above her. Her eyes drift closed and she gives herself over to it, forgetting everything but the rhythm between them, the steady feel of him between her legs, inside of her, pushing so deeply she imagines he will never leave.

And then she's breaking apart, only distantly aware of her voice crying out. Her body catches fire, burning Jon and bringing him over the edge with her. He holds her tightly, his voice joining the music she's making, and they spiral downward together, limbs locked together and bodies intertwined—refusing to let go as the flames consume them both.


	8. VIII

_WARNING: More explicit content in this part. If that's not your thing, jump to the first break. Thanks!_

* * *

 **VIII.**

Jon's eyes flutter open a long time later, when the fire in the hearth has burned down to embers. She is warm and soft against him, her body nested in the circle of his arms. He stares down at her, careful not to move or make a sound.

She is softer in sleep, as most people are. But the effect is more pronounced on this young queen, who makes such an effort to be hard and cold against anyone who would fight to destroy her. Daeneyrs' hair is loose and splayed out beneath her, and Jon reaches up a hand to run his fingers through it. The faint scent of ash and oil wafts out from the silky-smooth strands. She frowns in her sleep, her eyebrows drawing together, and he pulls her closer, arms tight and protective around her.

Gods, this was a bad idea. He can already feel it in him, the same emotion he fought against with Ygritte. But this is _different_. It's older now, and sadder—yet also the same. The same reckless devotion; the same impulse to do anything and everything to preserve the person lying inside his arms.

Last time, Jon was the death of his beloved. This time, she may be the death of him.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

"You're staring." The voice is quiet and so unexpected that he jumps. Her lips curve into a smile, her eyes still closed.

"You're beautiful," he answers. He has a hazy memory of telling her that last night, when the desire was warm and close.

Her eyelids crack open. "Flattery is unnecessary at this point, no?"

Her voice is calm, but cold, and something about it sends hurt through him. He pulls away from her, sitting up and throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

"Jon—"

"We shouldn't have done this."

Her answer comes slowly. "Regret it if you must. I don't."

When he looks back at her, he's almost lost again. She lies on her side, her head braced on her elbow and one knee bent upward. The furs have slipped off of her, but she doesn't seem to notice.

Slowly, she sits up, giving him a perfect view of her breasts.

"You're unhappy," she says.

He presses the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to regain some semblance of sense—of control. "This makes things more complicated."

"Is fucking always complicated for you?"

He flinches. "Don't call it that."

"Why not?"

Anger builds in his chest, sudden and sharp. He pushes to his feet, feeling the cold air hit his skin. "Because it's not—that's not why—"

"Does this damage your honor, Lord Snow? To be the consort to a queen?"

"Has it occurred to you that _you_ are the consort to a king?"

Anger darkens her face. She rises to her feet, graceful and regal even without the intricate braids and fine clothing and silver dragon-head sigil. She comes to a halt in front of him, and though he is taller and bigger than her, he still feels the full weight of her authority.

She puts her palms flat on his chest and pushes him down. The backs of his knees hit the bed and he falls into a sitting position, with her above him. For a moment, it feels as though he's bowing to her. Violet eyes stay locked on his face as she lowers herself into his lap, her knees landing on either side of him.

"You are _mine_ ," she says fiercely, staring into his eyes.

His cock is already stirring. "Yet you belong to no one."

She reaches down between them and strokes him. Her hands are different on him than before—harder, more unyielding, desiring to prove her dominion over him. He should push her away, deny her, reassert his authority—but he's never wanted to do anything less in his life.

When his cock is hard, she wastes no time. In one quick motion, she sheaths him inside of her, her eyes raking over his face with every inch of him she takes.

She doesn't give him time to adjust, just begins moving, her face a mask of stillness even as he groans and leans back helplessly, bracing himself with his hands flat on the bed.

" _You—are—mine_ ," she hisses again, emphasizing each word with a hard grind of her hips. "Say it."

The weakness rising in him is sudden and unexpected. He'd thought once that she could have him anywhere and any way she wanted. Now he's finding it to be true.

But instead of saying what she asks for, he admits something that a smarter man would keep to himself. "I love you."

She stills, and he opens his eyes to look at her. The mask has broken, and she stares at him with wide, afraid eyes. He sits up, bringing one hand up to caress her face and wrapping the other around her.

For a moment she's stiff in his arms. Then she curls into him, her body soft and compliant—and he picks up where she left off, surging up into her. But it's gentler now, and she's a soft woman in his arms again. She raises her head and looks at him, and he feels their connection snap into place. It's hard as Valyrian steel and permanent as the ragged cliffs of Dragonstone.

"Jon," she whispers, her eyes hot and brimming with tears—and he thinks he can hear it.

 _I love you, too._

* * *

When they finish, she dresses and leaves without another word. The sun has begun to rise, its light gentle and sleepy through the great stone windows. She passes her guards as she moves through the castle. If they see her state of undress and mussed hair, her path from the visitor's quarters, they wisely do not comment.

She dresses in a daze, her handmaidens tucking buttons into loops and brushing and braiding her hair until she is royal queen again. She excuses them and puts on the heavy dragon sigil, staring at herself in the polished glass mirror.

Love.

She clenches her hands around the long chain dangling from her sigil, the metal biting into her skin. She can count every mistake she made to this point, every step she took toward Jon Snow even as her advisors and her own mind told her to do otherwise. To dominate him instead. To send him away.

She had thought she loved Daario. It was calmer, more controlled than her consuming need for Drogo—but she had cared for the sellsword. She was sure of it. Yet when it came time to leave, she felt hollow when she looked at him. His insistence on staying by her side only frustrated her. There were kingdoms to conquer, and she didn't have time for the feelings of a man.

But now, she would give anything for Jon Snow to stay. For him to _insist_ on staying. She herself had been the one to demand it, and he had been the one to tell her no. To remind her of their responsibilities to their people. She can feel it, the weakness running through her veins, controlling her impulses, pulling at her like a puppeteer.

 _Force him to stay. Lock him in the dungeon. Beg him. Beg him._

She drops the chain, and it settles into place, heavy over her hip. She will do none of those things. She is Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons and the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

There's a light knock on the door, and Missandei enters the room. Dany doesn't turn away from the mirror, but her back tenses and her face becomes a mask of forced calm.

"Your Grace," Missandei says. It's not a question. She walks over to Dany, her footsteps a light whisper against stone, and puts a gentle hand on Dany's arm. She makes no other move to comfort her; asks no questions. But the trembling inside of Dany bursts free at that light touch, and she cries, the tears streaking down her face as she stares into the mirror.

Missandei doesn't offer solutions. Unlike many on Dany's council, Missandei knows not to suggest going North with Jon Snow—knows what that suggestion would mean. _Forfeit your goals and your power for the desires of a man._

Even if he's a good man, and even if he holds her heart—Dany can never do such a thing. She's grateful that Missandei knows this.

"They're preparing his ship," her advisor says quietly. "He'll depart within the hour. Do you want to say goodbye?"

 _Goodbye_. The word causes Dany's stomach to sink like lead. Goodbye, possibly forever, to her comely, noble King in the North.

She takes a deep breath and wipes her face, cleaning the tears away. Wordlessly, Missandei hands her a scrap of silk.

"Thank you," Dany says, grabbing both of Missandei's hands and squeezing them.

Missandei nods, her eyes kind and sympathetic.

Once Dany is presentable again, she straightens her back and turns away from the polished glass.

"Take me to him."

* * *

Jon busies himself with preparations. He wraps and secures the dragonglass weapons, counting and recounting their numbers. Then he packs his meager belongings and goes to meet with Davos, and the two men strategize about the journey home. Cersei hasn't shown much interest in them yet, but they would still do well to avoid the Gold Cloaks and Euron's roaming fleet.

Throughout all of this, Jon knows he should be feeling half a dozen things. Relief, for being released from Dragonstone at last, something that seemed impossible mere weeks ago. Excitement to see his siblings miraculously alive after all of these years. Dread at the coming war beyond the wall—a war he's increasingly sure he can't win.

But all he can think of is her. Body wrapped around him, her skin soft and glowing in the candlelight, the ends of her hair tickling his chest. The quick intake of breath when he pushes into her; the feel of her hands roaming over his back, nails digging in.

All he feels is the weight in his gut, the one he's afraid he'll never be rid of. The one that says any direction is the wrong way to go if it isn't toward her.

His sword is back on his hip—Daenerys returned it as a show of trust. Its weight is a heavy reminder of his responsibilities. The pommel carved into the shape of a wolf, taunting him with his roots, as though he could ever forget the Stark blood in his veins.

He feels awkward carrying it with Ser Jorah Mormont around; feels vaguely like a thief taking another man's birthright, however false that might be.

"Your Grace. We're ready."

Jon shakes free from his thoughts and turns toward Davos, nodding. They walk side-by-side out of the cave, Jon's booted feet sinking into the wet sand.

And there she is.

Standing on the beach, the wind whipping the red silken cape around her shoulders and lifting her beautiful silver hair. Her dress is long-sleeved and strong-shouldered, her back straight and her hands clasped in front of her. The expression on her face is placid as he approaches her. Whatever emotion she's experiencing underneath that mask, Jon can't see any trace of it.

He stops in front of her, a few paces away, bowing his head to avoid looking at her.

"Your Grace," he says, his voice odd and formal to his own ears.

"Lord Snow," she answers.

Her advisors and guard are arranged behind her, Davos behind Jon, but they are all very quiet. He feels as though no one is breathing on this cold, windy beach.

"If I die, at least you won't have to deal with the King in the North anymore."

He's not sure what possessed him to say it, but she flinches as though slapped, her mask slipping from her face. Suddenly she looks soft and trembling, even as she clenches her teeth against it.

"You have the supplies you need?" Though she struggles to regain control of her expression, her voice is cool and even.

"More than we could have hoped for, thank you." _But not nearly enough_.

There's no use telling her that.

She opens her mouth and stays that way for a moment, poised on the edge of speaking. Suddenly he can't stand this—can't stand any of it. His life has become a series of goodbyes, each more difficult than the one that came before.

"I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Your Grace," he says, nodding to her and stepping away.

He looks toward the ship and then past it, out into the churning ocean. Dragons wail and flap their great wings in the distance, casting enormous shadows on the water beneath them. For a moment he imagines them on the battlefield, vicious and fiery as they lay waste to the Night King's army, the Dragon Queen bathed in flame astride the largest and fiercest of them.

It would be a glorious thing to behold. They would write songs about it—the way she saved the realm. They might even include the Bastard King.

He shakes his head, clearing the fantasy away. It's not meant to be. And it's possible there will be no one left to tell the tales—not after what's coming.

A light touch finds his shoulder and he turns, startled. She stares at him, her eyes steady on his face as though memorizing every detail.

Her touch starts a craving in him, one so strong that he can't help reaching for her. His hands find her shoulders, then slide up to her collar, her neck. He wants more than anything to kiss her, but he's too aware of the eyes on his back. They've shown too much already; been too open. Love is dangerous, especially when revealed to others.

They stay like that for a moment longer, his hands on her and their eyes locked. Then she nods and steps away, turning from him.

"I hope your journey is smooth," she says. He's heard enough dismissals from her to recognize this one.

His eyes find Davos and Jon jerks his head. The man steps forward, and together with Dany's followers they push the small boat into the ocean. As the salty water splashes into him, Jon can't help looking back one more time. Her eyes find his, calling to him like a beacon, hot and burning. Davos throws himself into the boat and Jon follows suit, breaking the queen's gaze. As he helps them row away, his heart seizes around one brutal truth.

This may be the last time he ever sees her.


End file.
